


The Beat and the Pulse

by Horribibble



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, References to Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Horribibble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's up to human beings what they leave broken by the roadside. It's up to humane beings to repair and remove those things from the void.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beat and the Pulse

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a while ago and posted on Livejournal. The song that inspired it was "The Beat and the Pulse" by Austra. 
> 
> Please enjoy.

 

 It's a tired sort of determination that lets Alfred muddle on with his work as rain pelts down, soaking through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. There's something uniquely miserable about this stretch of highway—a dim, ugly stretch of gray, beige, and white cutting through various shades of vibrant gray.  
  
As a human being, he feels as if he's part of a divine ball-dropping conspiracy.

He glances briefly into the distance, following the flow of traffic, and sees more of a faint vacuum than a horizon. It could be the mist. 

He shrugs his shoulders, focusing on the abandoned motorcycle, running checklists in his mind—worth it? Not worth it? 

The lights from his truck cast changing patterns over his back and shoulders, spilling over the scratched metal of his newest acquisition.

 It'll do.  
 

-

 

 He radios in.

 

-

  
When Arthur Kirkland comes into town on his way to scenic somewhere else, he starts to get a similar impression of some half-perceived vacuum, only this one seems to be centered around Alfred.  
  
Tall, handsome 'country boy' Alfred, with his big bright smile and his secret collection of Murakami and Nabokov. He invites Arthur into the home he shares with his brother Matthew, and suddenly the Englishman stops finding little faults to peck at.

They sit out on the back porch, looking out over spare parts and salvaged shells, and they watch the big white dog run after fireflies, dragonflies, _any_ thing that flies.

Matthew laughs from his perch on the steps, and wonders if it will rain again tomorrow. It will be a good thing if it does, he confides, because it's about time Kuma-something had a bath, and he's a nightmare to keep still.

He trots off after the monstrous canine, and Alfred tells Arthur, “I just call him Bear. He comes, either way.”

“'Bear'? Because he could fight one off, or because he's big and strong like one?”

Alfred says, “G-d, I hope so.”

He looks at Arthur like he's praying for both of them, and it makes him want to cry.  
  


-

 

The first time they touch each other, mapping body to body, they're taking a night swim in the creek. Everything is slick and wet and wonderful, the water and the thick summer air and the way Alfred plays Arthur's body like an old familiar instrument.

Arthur was never one to be coddled and pampered, but pressed between Alfred's chest and the warm cage of his arms, he realizes that maybe being _protected_ is all right.

Because that's what Alfred wants to do, wrapping himself up in every little quirk and quizzical smile like armor.

He wants to protect him.

From the vile, insipid comments of narrow-minded locals, and from the dangerous, prying eyes perched atop the old train trestle.

 

-

  
  
There's something to be said for the terrors of 'ordinary people', and the hate they can manifest with so little provocation.

For the rest of his life, Arthur Kirkland will have nightmares about the horrible crackling of the receiver as Matthew struggles with the workings, desperately pleading aloud with whoever might be listening that this is just a malfunction.

That it's interference, and not some horrible occurrence that's turned his brother's warm tone into something raspy, ugly, and only-half-there.

It's a small miracle that the local good-old-boys have forgotten about Alfred's radio, because otherwise Arthur may not have had the opportunity for nightmares.

 

-

 

They left Alfred for dead by the side of the road.

The lights from his truck cast changing patterns over his face and chest, spilling over the battered flesh of his shattered frame. He presses broken fingers to the 'talk' button, and tries his best to broadcast 'strength'. 

 

-

 

He radios in:

   
“Get out of the house, Matt. Get Bear and Arthur in the truck, and get the fuck out of the house.”

 And then,

 “I love you.”

He is not just talking to Matt.

 

-

 

Matt goes to grab Bear, maneuvering the great animal with surprising strength while Arthur darts up the stairs to grab the few things that matter—Alfred's favorite books, Arthur's notebooks, Matthew's family albums, all bound together at the spine.

He stuffs them all in his bag, and runs back down to climb into Matt's pick-up.

The other radio is shoved between his palms, and the quiet blonde turns the key in the ignition, prompting a loud roar from the engine.

His fingers are tight on the wheel, and he looks like vengeful death to Arthur, but neither of them says anything until they're tearing off for the highway—

Towards Alfred's last job.

 

-

 

They'll be followed, and they know it, but it's comfort enough to hear Alfred coughing and sighing over the airwaves as Arthur urges him to keep talking, to just let them hear his voice.

This lasts until they come up on the cycling yellow lights at the roadside, offering a sickly beacon to collect the rest of their shattered home from the weeds and tar and bits of ripped tire.

Arthur does what he can for the injuries before Matthew hoists his brother into the cab, where they wedge him carefully between them. They leave his truck behind, but Alfred doesn't bother complaining.

It's enough that they will all survive this—at least, it seems that way, with Matt behind the wheel.

It's enough that Arthur presses his face against his bruised shoulder, kissing where the fabric of his shirt has ripped, and whispers about love and religion and gratitude.

 

-

 

It's a tired sort of determination that lets Alfred feel all right.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been debating a follow-up to this story.   
> On LJ, a few people displayed concern for the future well-being of our heroes.   
> I assured one that the next town's German sheriff takes no shit.  
> Would anyone be interested in reading a continuation?


End file.
